


Sound of Madness

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapped John, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, Moriarty is Alive, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: John Watson is the one person - the onething- that Sherlock Holmes truly cares for.Jim Moriarty knows this.  Knows what killing John would do to Sherlock.Knows whatbreakingJohn would do to him, too.





	Sound of Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags. Seriously. This had to be cut because I made _myself_ uncomfortable with parts of it!

“I really haven’t a clue what he sees in you.” The restraints were tight enough to border on concerning, the circulation in his wrists and ankles close enough to being cut off that the pain had dulled into a low throb and feeling had long-since left his hands and feet. If he remained bound for too much longer, John Watson was under no illusion as to the fact that he may very well lose all four limbs, the plastic of the zip-ties cutting into his flesh.

“Well, when I figure it out I’ll let you know.” He replied, voice broken and husky from the rope they had looped around his neck to restrain him, cutting off his air supply. Grabbed from the street, they had pulled the rope tight for long enough that he had lost consciousness, only waking when cold water had been splashed on his face - some hours later, judging by the clench of his empty stomach. Not that he was provided with any outward clues in the windowless cell where he presently resided. Alone, save for one James Moriarty.

“I mean  _ look _ at you!” Moriarty laughed, the lilt of his voice taking on a mocking sort of pity as he appraised his  _ guest _ , and it was as though John had never spoken. “Below average height  _ and _ intellect, greying hair, not to mention a decidedly unhealthy dose of PTSD; you’ve really let yourself  _ go _ these past few years, haven’t you Doctor Watson? But there has to be  _ something _ . Something that would make the great Sherlock Holmes want to keep such a boring little man around for so long, but  _ what _ could it  _ be _ ?” He made a show of tapping his chin, thin-lipped smile transforming his expression into something entirely unsettling as he prowled around John’s prone form. His cruel gaze travelled down John’s body, with enough obvious intent that it would have made a whore blush. Yet John remained still, refusing to flinch under that man’s scrutiny.

While Moriarty stood proud in his blue Vivienne Westwood suit and pristine brown brogues, John was partly hunched over on the cold tiled floor, his own jeans and comfortable jumper having been stripped from him while he was unconscious, leaving him in little more than his grey boxer-briefs. It should have been humiliating, but there was time to let those emotions rule, and this was not it - he needed to focus on getting out of there. Or, at the very least, surviving.

Considering Moriarty’s penchant for leaving bodies as taunts for Sherlock, John wasn’t very hopeful about either prospect.

“He’s brilliant, do you know? What am I saying, of course you don’t know! You are  _ far _ too simple to have realised something like that. You’re too busy being blinded by what few fragments your tiny brain can possibly hope to comprehend.” A hand reached out to run over his head, absurdly gentle fingers carding through his hair and John jerked away with a surprised hiss. The motion earned a disappointed tut from Moriarty, those same fingers reaching out to grasp a fistful of blonde strands in a vice-like grip, yanking him backwards and off balance, leaving him sprawled at the feet of his psychopathic captor.

“What do you want?” John managed to grind out, forcing back the tears which gathered at the corners of his eyes involuntarily as Moriarty only tightened his grip.

“Poor, sweet Doctor Watson - don’t play coy with me. You may be an idiot but I’m sure even  _ you  _ must have figured it out by now.” He cooed, sounding vaguely pleased with himself, a mockery of the expectation Sherlock often held for him. “What do I  _ always _ do to Sherlock Holmes’ toys when I inevitably get my hands on them?” He did not bother waiting for a reply, and the grin was evident in Moriarty’s tone. “I  _ break _ them!”

“I’m to be another one of your sick messages then, hm? Another dead body to add to the pile. Well whatever you think you’ll achieve, this isn’t going to work. Like you said, I’m nothing, a nobody - Sherlock will just find a replacement and this whole thing will have been for nothing, you watch.”

“You really are  _ terribly _ stupid!” The laugh was vicious, yet the hand in his hair loosened, allowing John to slump a little further, his body aching from the vicious treatment that had yet to fully develop into bruising. “We shall see in due course if you are a ‘nobody’, I suppose, but I’m inclined to think you’re not.”

“And what, exactly, makes you think that?”

“I suppose I have time, I can  _ indulge  _ you for a few minutes.” Moriarty let out a low hum, fingers resuming their slow, sickening drag through John’s hair as he spoke. “Sherlock Holmes is a  _ unique _ man, and he can only stand to have those around him who have a  _ use _ to him. The housekeeper; she reminds him of his grandmother, a misplaced affection that he refuses to admit to. The idiot detective; he provides access to the murder scenes that he so craves and the information he needs. The registrar from the morgue; she gives him access to the bodies themselves. And then there is  _ you _ , Doctor Watson. A simple man, with simple pleasures and a mind so  _ dull _ that I’m sure residing in it must be excruciating for you.  _ You _ are the most important puzzle piece of all, and you haven’t even realised it.”

“So kill me, then. Why drag it out, if you’re going to do it anyway.”

“Are you really in such a hurry to die?” It sounded almost musical, in a way, and John bit back a grimace.

“Not really, but it’s not like I have a choice.” He would still fight, for what little good it would do him. John had no intention of going down without at least taking a couple of the bastard’s pearly white teeth with him - maybe a broken nose, if he was lucky.

That might almost make the whole dying lark worth it.

“Oh but you  _ do _ .” Moriarty grinned, face splitting in two with the glee of his expression, a nasty twinkle in his eyes. “That’s the beauty of all this! You’re as useful alive as you are dead, so it really makes no difference to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you will.” Two fingers pressed against his lips, not firmly enough to part them, yet enough to know their intent without any sort of doubt. Warm breath ghosted over John’s left ear and he shuddered, forcing himself to remain motionless, eyes wide with the fear reflected in them. “If you bite me, I will have you slowly tortured until you  _ beg _ for me to kill you, and you will be returned to Sherlock piece by piece for a  _ month _ . If, however, you’re a good little dog and do as you’re told, I’ll have you back to him by tomorrow morning, alive.” There he paused for a moment, tips of his fingers pushing up against John’s teeth. “More or less.”

For the first time since his capture, since his confrontation with Moriarty began, John was truly afraid. Slamming his eyes shut and keeping them that way, he could only pray that Sherlock would find him sooner rather than later.

“ _ There’s _ a good boy.”

* * *

“John,  _ John! _ ” There was no reply, no sound at all aside from Sherlock’s own laboured breathing and the pounding of his shoes against the dirty and cracked tiles that stretched on ahead. He had followed the trail easily of course; it had been made deliberately simple, and yet John had been missing for far too long already and the first clue had not materialised until that morning, over twelve hours later.

Moriarty; of course the  _ bastard _ was going to go after the one thing Sherlock prized amongst all others. No one else had tried, not really; no one else had understood the panic in his eyes at the sight of John with the muzzle of a gun to his head and an order to kill hanging in the air, no one had seen the adoration on his face at the realisation that John had taken a life to protect him, and of course no one could have witnessed the quiet nights in front of the fire at 221B Baker Street with a glass of wine each and knees pressed together as they laughed over jokes that none save the two of them could understand. No one, except for Moriarty.

The asylum had been closed for decades, old and decaying, home to junkies and rats. The upper levels were too dangerous even for the vermin of London to traverse, and the whole site was pegged for redevelopment in the near future, though plans had yet to be finalised and it was likely they never would be. Not until the building toppled of its own accord, at least.

“ _ John _ , answer me!” His cries were growing more frantic, heart racing in his throat as he tried to get a grip on himself; he would be of little use if he lost his ability to reason in favour of blind panic. Yet, the final note had been smeared with blood, and while Sherlock could not be entirely certain it was  _ John’s _ blood, the fact that it existed at all had instilled a level of panic in him which had yet to abate.

The darkened stairwell opened out in front of him, lit only by the small torch he had fortunately kept upon his person. The hospital was, by all rights, abandoned - no one else was there, and yet Sherlock  _ knew _ he had to be right about this. There was no way he could have misread the clear directions he had been sent.

The basement of the asylum was somewhat different to the open-plan and hospital-like ground floor that stood above him; in place of broken desks and scattered chairs, there were lines of closed doors, each with a number allocated to it.  _ 103...107...114  _ the numbers stretched on, odd to his left and even to his right. At door number 130, he reached a crossroads of sorts, a large number  _ 1 _ plastered on the wall on either side of his present corridor, while  _ 2, 3 _ and  _ 4 _ decorated the walls in a clockwise direction around him. Sherlock took a left turn, dodging past an abandoned trolley that had long since rusted over and continuing on, his eyes glued to his left.  _ 209...215...219… _

Finally,  _ finally _ , he found the door he had been looking for. Even without knowing beforehand, it would have been impossible to miss; where the rest of the asylum was covered in a thick layer of dirt and starting to rust, the door to  _ this _ room had been cleaned off and yellow light filtered out from the small gap near the floor. A new thumbprint lock had been fitted to the door some time recently, and a fresh name card had been slotted into the space beneath the door number.

_ 221  
_ _ Dr. John Watson _

Sherlock pressed his thumb to the lock, hand shaking as he did so, and the door clicked open. The room beyond was stark white, light blinding enough that he had to shield his eyes for a moment until he could adjust to the sudden change. The room was spotless, entirely bare save for a single chair near the middle of the room, and one John Watson huddled in the far left corner.

“John-” Licking suddenly dry lips, Sherlock hesitated for a moment in the doorway, taking in his friend’s appearance, the bottom of his stomach seeming to drop out at the sight. John was bound, hands limp and swollen in his lap, body mottled with a myriad of cuts and bruises. His lip was split, eyes wide and glassy as they stared past Sherlock,  _ through  _ him. Most of his clothing was gone, save for his underwear. There was blood, more than there should have been, and Sherlock didn’t want to think about that right at that moment.  _ Couldn’t  _ think about it. Not if he wanted to get John out of there, get him to safety, to a doctor.

“John, can you hear me?” Sherlock approached slowly, mindful that they might be interrupted at any moment and very much aware of the potential danger they were both still in. “It’s me, it’s Sherlock.” Still John did not move, made no indication he was in any way aware of the other man’s presence in the room. He was gone, vacant, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest present to indicate that he still lived. Reaching out, Sherlock gently placed his palm upon the back of John’s wrist - the response was instantaneous. John stiffened, shrinking back against the wall, pupils dilating to almost obscure the irises before returning back to something resembling normal.

“Sherlock?” It barely sounded like John at all, cracked and broken, damaged throat and rasping lungs and he still wasn’t focusing.

“Yes, it’s me, I’m here. My  _ god _ , John, what in the hell did he  _ do _ to you?” His eyes weren’t tracking, at all, and Sherlock hoped whatever drugs had been pumped into his system wouldn’t prove to be more damaging than-

No, he couldn’t dwell on that. Shut down those thoughts, lock them away - he needed to get John to safety,  _ immediately.  _ Everything else could wait until later.

“Sherlock.” The laughter bubbled out, unbidden, and yet once he started he could not stop himself. John let Sherlock pull him close, face pressed into the front of his shirt. It took scarcely any time at all for Sherlock to become aware of a growing damp patch just above his heart, and still he held on, arms wrapped tightly around the shuddering form as the laughter echoed down the empty halls.


End file.
